Carol’s Column

A book, a bough, a glass of wine and that’s it

THERE’S something special about a peaceful Saturday afternoon.

Perhaps it’s the joy of knowing you can snuggle up in peace and quiet with a good book, a chunk of celery and a box of chocolates.

So you take out your tight false teeth — the uppers are not such a perfect fit — wriggle out of your corset and shoes that pinch, and totally relax.

When the doorbell rings and behind tortoise-shell specs, buck teeth and flat feet stands an earnest young man selling God.

“No thank you,” I say in a kindly way.

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He puts his foot in the door, treading on my corn and says: “I have a message for you too.”

I bang the door catching his left foot which serves him right. Then return to my book and the adventures of Queen Victoria.

The phone rings.

“No, Hymie Cornbloom does not live here. Only Lazars live here. Am I sure? Of course I am sure. Good heavens, I know these things and there’s no doubt that we’re Lazars not Cornblooms.”

Queen Victoria has just met Albert, his moustache bristles and it is love at first sight.

Dammit. There’s a rapping at the door.

A luscious looking blonde in a mini flutters her eyelashes. “I’ve come to visit Jamie,” she says.

“Sure, come in, he’s busy making milkshakes in the kitchen.” She slithers her way through. Is she really only nine years old?

Victoria is getting on famously with Albert when the cricket phone chirps almost shattering my eardrum because someone has turned it up too loud.

“Hi, Mrs Lazar, can I please speak to Baa.”

Baa? My oldest son we specially named Barry so that it could not be abbreviated. Baa?

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“Baa’s windsurfing at the dam — who can I say called?”

“Guiseppe — the Italian stallion.”

“Guiseppe — the Italian stallion?”

Albert has progressed from carriage riding to asking for Victoria’s hand in marriage when there is an ear-splitting yell.

It sounds as if somebody is dying.

I jump up, dislocating my natural-curl, drip-dry wig and run into the garden to find Loda, our personal minister of agriculture, having a friendly chat to Phineas and Flaxon — neighbouring ministers of agriculture.

Just then a four-legged genetic misfit disguised as a hush puppy bounds through my sweet peas scattering them in every which way direction.

It is Rodney from down the road. How can anyone name a hound Rodney?

“Rodney!” I yell, but it is too late. Rodney is into the marigolds and soon they’re cut-off golden heads in the mulch.

And then the garden is invaded by four mini-terrorists with bikes and crash helmets.

“We’ve come to ramp in the garden,” they say as they whizz over the petunias.

I retreat to Victoria and Albert.

But not for long as the fumigators arrive.

“This is the total onslaught against silver moths, white ants and cockroaches,” they say as they fume their fumigators and clouds of spray waft through the house.

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Albert is about to bed Victoria when I notice something is leaking.

I notice this as it is not usual to have raindrops falling on my head while sitting on my synthetic draylon couch in the lounge.

Somebody has left the bath tap on upstairs. The double bed, like Noah’s Ark is floating round the bedroom.

At this rate, Albert will never make it.

He’s undressed her when a hawker pops his head through the window.

“Manure, Medêm?” he inquires cheerfully.

“We’ve got plenty,” I say so he dumps the lorry load anyway.

Albert is kissing Victoria as the friendly-neighbourhood-summons-man pops in with a summons.

There isn’t time to hide.

That kiss costs me R25 which is prohibitive in anyone’s language.

There is a lull. Other than the phone which rings 25 times, seven knocks on the door and the council which comes to clear the drains, chase rats, check the meter and dig up the sewerage.

At 5pm Albert has still not managed to fulfil his marital obligations with Victoria.

I am feeling frustrated, I say so to my husband.

“Never mind,” he replies sympathetically. “You can always finish your book next Saturday afternoon — Saturdays are for relaxing.”

They are?

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